We Didn't Start The Fire
by Adara-chan67
Summary: This is clearly shaping up to be one of those things we beat to death until it needs to be put out of its misery, but here it is: Rather long tag for Devil’s Trap. Sam is taken by the demon. ‘Nough said. Warning: Character death.
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: There are things that don't belong to me in this story, and there are also things that do belong to me. I trust you guys to figure out what's what.

* * *

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning, since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it._

* * *

_Sam saw fire. It was everywhere, burning, killing, destroying. It licked at his bare, unprotected skin, but he felt nothing. The flames didn't burn him._

_They burned his family, instead._

_A cold smile crossed Sam's face as he watched the blaze slowly consume his father and brother—everything he had left in the world. He made no attempt to save them. It wasn't important—nothing that had ever happened to him was important anymore. Now he had a new life, a new purpose, a new destiny. Power thrummed through him, singing in his blood, making his head swim. Making him feel more alive than he had in _years

_But Dean and John wouldn't understand how he felt. They couldn't be expected to, really—they had lived life on the straight and narrow, and they couldn't possibly have any idea how it felt to step off that path and _change

_But their ignorance, while understandable, was nevertheless problematic, since it could prove fatal to Sam. And so, regrettable as it was, there was nothing else for it._

_They had to die._

_His smile didn't so much as flicker at the thought—it stayed on his face as, bit by bit, all that tethered him to his old life finally fell away. _

XXX

Samuel Winchester was stuck in a nightmare. That much was obvious from the horror on his face. The demon watched the boy, cool and calculating, waiting. Waiting for his orders.

He wasn't concerned that Samuel would wake up, or the other humans. In fact, he doubted that Dean and Johnathan would ever awaken again, though it would be of no consequence if they did. Samuel, though…Samuel was another story, The master had made sure that he would survive, because Samuel was still important.

_It's time._

The demon didn't have to look around to know that the area was still deserted. The voice came from inside his own head.

_Take him_.

* * *

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning, since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_But when we are gone,_

_It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on…_

_

* * *

_

AN: It's really, really short, I know, but I just wanted to air the idea. I don't know how soon you should expect an actual chapter, because a book I've been waiting on for over a year now is due to come out in about four days, and once I get it I'm pretty sure that absolutely no writing will be done until I finish it.

Also, I'm sorry if this idea has become cliché since Devil's Trap premiered, but I'm writing this by request of a friend, so there's no avoiding it even if I wanted to—which, it must be admitted, I really don't.

Now that that's all said, let me remind all you happy people out there that reviews make the world go around!


	2. Chapter 1: Akin To Pain

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_No, we didn't light it but we tried to fight it._

* * *

It was a slow night at Memorial Hospital and Medical Clinic. Or at least, the emergency phone service was slow. Now, that could be considered a good thing, and actually it _was_ a good thing.

But good things have a habit of running off when you least expect it, and just as the emergency dispatcher was in the middle of falling asleep on the job, the phone began to jangle in a most irritating fashion.

"Memorial Emergency Dispatch. Please state your—"

"I'm calling to report an accident."

XXX

Dean Winchester couldn't figure out what the sounds meant. They were loud, and piercing, and _repetitive. _Over and over again, they screeched…over and over again, and not a thing could block them out.

A part of Dean's incredibly fuzzy brain tried to put a name to the noise, but it just made his head pound more than it already was, so he let it go. It was obvious that he wasn't going to be able to think of it right now anyway.

In fact, he couldn't think _at all_. Not to wonder what had happened, not to figure out what was going on now, not even to _do_ anything. Nor could he feel.

That was wrong. Distantly, he knew that was wrong…

The incessant screeches stopped, and Dean felt a pang of relief. There were a few slamming sounds that jarred the ache in his head and pushed it up about a hundred notches, and then, at last, a sound he recognized _without_ having to wonder about it.

"Sir, were you the one to call in?"

"Uh…uh, yeah…"

"All right. Did you see what happened?"

"No…I…"

"Sir, please, I need you to try and stay calm, and tell me everything."

A deep intake of breath, and then the man's voice spoke again. "I was driving, and…and I saw a broken fence and…a car, on the side of the road. Like…_way_ on the side of the road. So I stopped, and…I mean, I didn't really expect anyone to be _in_ there. I just…didn't. So I went to look, and they were just…_lying_ there. And there was blood and…and that's when I called 911."

"Okay. Thank you…"

And then the clarity of the voices faded, and for a while, there were just noises and faint murmurs that made no sense to Dean.

And then a voice suddenly rang clearly in his ears, sounding very close, and accompanied by a deep, sorrowful sigh. "This one's cold, guys."

Dean couldn't for the life of him figure out what that meant, and he didn't really want to.

Another sigh, and then another man spoke. "I'll check on the one in the back."

More thuds and unfamiliar sounds, and someone touched Dean's wrist. He felt an urge to jerk away, but he couldn't. He still couldn't do anything, or even really _want_ to do anything. But his head was still clearing, as if only a little. Maybe soon he'd be able to open his eyes.

"This guy's alive," a voice said over his head. "I need some help over here _now_!"

After that the world dissolved into a flood of confusing medical jargon overlapped with other things, and then Dean felt someone lifting him. The movement jolted him, sped up his slow climb back to consciousness, and for just a moment, he felt _everything_—the pain from each individual bruise, multiplied what felt like a thousand times, accompanied by fear and combined it all made him want to scream and do nothing _but_ scream until—

And then someone spoke up, sounding truly baffled.

"Wait…where's the _driver?_"

Dean fell back into the darkness.

XXX

_Sam stayed where he was even after Dean and John had burned to ash, watching the flames slowly extinguish themselves. He didn't feel any regret, but he didn't feel anything else, either. He was just…numb, as he had never been before._

_As he stood there, he ran his mind over everything that had happened to him in the last days. That night John Winchester had been possessed, the night Dean had nearly died at the hands of his own father, the night Sam had put a bullet into him… _

_And the accident. That horrible accident… _

_He had been driving. He knew that much.. But he couldn't seem to remember where the truck had _come_ from. Not that it mattered in the long run, but he really would have liked to know something that huge and…_lethal_…could have gotten past his senses. _

_And it looked like he would never find out. _

But it doesn't matter, does it? Because something much more important happened that night.

_For that was the night that Sam had become what he was truly meant to be._

XXX

Dr. Walter Richardson was exhausted. Truly, deeply exhausted. He had been on the clock for what seemed like countless hours, and he'd spent most of it in the most absolutely painful wing of the entire hospital one could possibly work on.

The Intensive Care Unit had seemed even more depressing than usual lately, for some reason. Maybe it was because he was tired. Or maybe it was because of the eight patients on this floor right now, half of them had taken a turn for the worst since this afternoon. Or maybe it was because he just felt so _old_ right now.

But finally, finally, he could be done for the night. He had done his duties—gone above and beyond, actually—and now he could go off-call at last. Well, barring some kind of disaster anyway…

"Dr. Richardson. Paging Dr. Richardson to the ER."

The doctor groaned.

_Just _had_ to go and think that, didn't I?_

XXX

Should I feel…sad now? _Sam wondered idly as he reached the end of his trip down memory lane. It had only been a few days, and he was already forgetting all of the old feelings that used to weigh so heavily on his spirit. And not only was when he was _supposed_ to feel them, but _how_ to feel them and, oh, but it was wonderful. _

"_Have you finished what you needed to do?"_

_Sam half-turned to glance at the man who was, suddenly and without warning, standing next to him, his eyes on the blaze, and inclined his head, just slightly. "It's done." _

_The man nodded, looking satisfied. "And do you understand now?"_

_Sam didn't have to ask what he was supposed to understand. "I do. You told me to do this because…I needed to cut ties with the past."_

"_And now that you have…?"_

_Once, Sam would have shied violently from talking to _anyone_ about his feelings, much less this almost-complete stranger. Now…well, he had changed. A lot._

"_I feel…free."_

_His companion smiled. "Freedom tends to give you that." _

_Sam chuckled softly. "Yeah, I guess it does." His voice dropped slightly. "I…can't believe it's over. I can't believe they're gone."_

"_Do you regret it?"_

_Sam thought about it, but not for long. "No. Not exactly. I just…they were apart of me for so long. That whole life…it _made_ me. I guess I'm just surprised that it could end so quickly. So _easily_. It's…strange." _

"Life_ is strange, Sammy."_

_Sam tensed and his voice was suddenly harsh. "It's _SAM."

_And then silence reigned._

XXX

The man was barely in his mid-teens, and Dr. Richardson felt his depression rise again. He quelled the sentiment determinedly, and forced himself to do his job, and _only_ his job.

One of the EMTs filled him in as they wheeled Dean Winchester—identity discovered via his wallet—down to an exam room. Well, filled him in as much as possible during the frantic attempt to keep the patient alive.

All in all, this case was quite similar to all the other ER episodes—shut down all emotion, get the guy stabilized, get a prognosis, find out who to call, and get the hell outta Dodge before it became too much.

And at some point, it _always_ became too much.

XXX

_Sam wasn't the one who broke the silence, although he probably would have if given a few more seconds._

_As it happened, though, the demon spoke first. "You still carry them, then." _

_Sam's first instinct was to protest. "That's not—"_

_"If my calling you by the nickname that your family gave you makes you angry, then you still carry them," the demon said calmly. "It meant that the memory pains you, and as long as you let it do so, you will never be able to truly shake off your old self."_

"_I…I'm sorry," Sam said, because he had no idea what else to say._

"_No, that's not what I want. To apologize is to indicate that you've done something wrong."_

"_But I thought that—"_

"_Sam, one thing that you have to understand is that people with our level of power are _never_ wrong. So we never apologize."_

_Sam tried to form an answer to that and failed, miserably._

XXX

There was no one to call.

Dr. Richardson never knew whether to feel relieved or sad or just _angry_ when that happened. Relieved, because if there was no one to call, the doctor could be saved from the horrible feeling he got when he had to talk to family of the dying. Sad, because the thought of having _no one_ was just…so horrible. Or angry, because of the very idea of anyone _having_ to be alone.

So, as usual, he decided not to think about it, and instead focused on the patient himself.

Dean Winchester was in a coma, brought on by internal injuries and severe bleeding. Incredibly, he had no broken bones, but even without them he had quite enough damage to be getting on with. And most mysterious was that slice across the chest. Dr. Richardson could not, for the life of him, figure out where _that_ could have come from.

The coma wasn't a heavy one, but that didn't mean that Dean Winchester was out of the woods. Not by any means.

But even so, there was nothing more he himself could do here. The surgery was over, and now the only thing to do was watch and wait.

And anyone could handle that.

And _that _meant that Dr. Richardson could go home at last.

_I _really_ need to look into early retirement. _Very_ early retirement._

XXX

_"You're wondering why I brought the subject up if I didn't want an apology," the demon said, after another long silence._

"_Well…yeah," Sam admitted, because he had learned quickly that lying to this…entity…was entirely pointless and—depending on the nature of the lie—sometimes dangerous. _

"_I want you to realize that the pain these memories bring you doesn't have to be bad. In fact, it can be very useful." _

_Sam didn't ask—if he just stayed quiet, the demon who was now his mentor would soon explain himself. _

"_Sam, contrary to the opinion of the smaller-minded population, pain isn't something to be shunned. You should embrace it, let it become apart of you. And once it does, it will no longer affect you. In fact, it will strengthen you, because you'll be able to look back on your mistakes without unhappiness and anger clouding your judgment. And if you can think on them, you can _act _on them, and change things."_

_It made a strange sort of sense._

"_I see. But how do I make it _happen_?"_

_The demon smiled coolly. "I can't tell you that, because everyone is different. But I can tell you how to begin."_

_Sam nodded, and lowered his head, this time submissively. "Yes…Father."_

XXX

And in a quiet hospital room someplace that was not where Sam was, another man was hovering fitfully between the worlds of the living and the dead.

* * *

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_But when we are gone_

_It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on…_

* * *

AN: I know, I know, long wait, short chapter. But I think this is as good a time as any to warn you readers that this fic is probably gonna be comprised of the shortest chapters I've ever written, because I have very specific ideas of where each chapter should end, and it doesn't take long to get there.

But the good news is, I finished my book last night, so I can go back to writing more often now. So the wait probably won't be as long this time around.

Please review!


	3. Chapter 2: Dreams and Nightmares

_We didn't start the fire. _

_It was always burning since the world's been turning. _

_We didn't start the fire. _

_No, we didn't light it but we tried to fight it. _

* * *

_Sam came slowly out of his self-induced "trance" and his first thought was how very _hungry_ he was. Hungry, and parched, and stiff. He had no idea how long he'd been out here, but his body was telling him that he'd been in the same position for a _very_ long time. _

_Slowly, he uncurled his legs, stifling a cry as thousands of invisible needles stabbed him at once, every part of him. As it was, he couldn't completely block a small whimper of pain. _

Standing up is going to be _wonderful!_

_Even as he thought it, he unconsciously cast his glance around, and was not surprised that his mentor was not there. However, Sam had a feeling that he would be soon. And until then, there was absolutely no reason to—_

_"I had no idea that my instructions would take so long to carry out." _

_Sam started slightly—his period of utter stillness had severely dampened his senses and reflexes—and turned to face the direction the voice came from. "I could have told you it would," he murmured, and his voice was almost too hoarse to put forth any sound at all. _

_The entity raised an eyebrow, and Sam quickly amended himself. _

_"It turns out that I had…a lot to work through." _

_"I know. That must be why you've been sitting exactly where I left you for three days." _

XXX

Dean Winchester's head tossed fitfully on the pillows of his hospital bed, and the nurse checking his vitals looked quickly at him as he moaned, thinking that maybe he was waking. But after a moment, he stilled again, and the nurse turned away again. 

XXX

_"Three days?" Sam Winchester repeated in slight disbelief. "That's impossible…"_

_"I'll admit that I didn't think it was likely, but it was never impossible," the demon corrected, coming forward to stand beside Sam, who was still on the ground. "Did you manage to finish?" _

_Sam nodded. "Yes."_

_"How did it feel?"_

_"How do you _think _it—" Sam cut himself off suddenly, and his mentor smiled. _

_"Don't worry."_

_Sam sighed. "It was just…I mean, I expected it to hurt, but it was…worse than I could have imagined it would be." _

_"Sifting through one's memories always hurts. If it didn't, that would indicate that you have no soul at all."_

_"Well, it looks like my soul is in excellent condition," Sam said with a sigh. "But…I did it. I went over every memory I've got from the time I was two, and I think I even uncovered some new ones."_

_"And you still have no idea why I told you to do this."_

_"No, I don't." _

_"So why did you do it?"_

_Sam thought that there must be some deeper meaning somewhere in that question, but he knew he wouldn't find it. "Because you told me to." _

_"And why does that matter?"_

_Suddenly feeling as if he were being quizzed, Sam replied, "Because you know what's best for me."_

_The entity chuckled. "I never claimed to know what was best for anyone, but I appreciate the vote of confidence." But where there would be warmth, both in the chuckle and in the words, the demon's tone never hinted at anything but ice._

_Sam admired that._

_"So what do I do now?"_

_Instead of answering, the demon replied with a question. "Sam, how many parts of your life have you blamed yourself for?"_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"You heard me. Of everything that has happened to you and your family since you were born, how much have you blamed yourself for?"_

_"Why are you…?"_

_"You're avoiding the question. Don't. You need to be honest with me if you want me to teach you." _

_Sam sighed. "I know. I'm—" He stopped mid-apology, remembering the earlier lecture. "Never mind." _

_"It's everything, isn't it? You think everything is your fault." _

_Sam nodded, slowly. _

_"Mary Winchester's death. Your brother not being able to live normally. Your father's obsession with the hunt. And Jessica Moore. Everything that has happened since the night you turned six months old."_

_"Yes." _

_"And so you show your humanity. You show that you are clinging to the very thing you want to leave behind." _

_"…Yes." _

_The demon nodded._

_"So how do I let go?"_

_"You've already begun. What do you think this little exercise was about?" the demon asked rhetorically. "Sam, I want you to tell me, right now, without even thinking about it, who killed your mother and your girlfriend." _

_Sam responded instantly, with the reflex of one who had thought about this question many times. "Me."_

_The demon shook his head, though not exactly in irritation. "I'm going to ask again, and this time I want you to really think about it. Look at your memories, and yourself, and then tell me: who killed your mother and your girlfriend? Who is at fault for their deaths?"_

_And Sam did. He thought about it, thoroughly and carefully, and realized the truth at last. _

_"…You are."_

XXX

"I don't understand it," Dr. Richardson said, puzzled. "The scans show that he should be awake by now. In fact, he seems to be only in an extended period of REM sleep even now."

The nurse who had come in to check the monitors looked over at him. "Has he been this way long?"

"Since the morning after he was brought in six days ago. I don't understand…"

On the bed, their patient shifted, face scrunching as if in confusion and a trace of fear.

The nurse, watching him, sounded confused as she said, "It's almost as if he's…having a nightmare."

XXX

_Sam was quiet for a long time after that, just thinking. He thought about what the demon had said, what it meant, what he'd been through lately…_

_"You're right," he said softly. "It wasn't my fault. None of it…" _

_The demon smiled, again with no humor or warmth. "Exactly. None of it was your fault. And now that you've realized that, you can wipe clean the slate, shake off the past and become a new man, one who can do the work I need you to do without concern for that old-fashioned human morality that I find so odd," he said, stepping forward to place a hand under Sam's arm. _

_Sam groaned slightly as he stood, stretching out his muscles and pushing the pain away. His mentor supported him carefully, his grip like iron._

_"And now that you have completed this task, we can finally begin your training." _

_And then the world…dissolved. That was really the only way to describe it. For a moment, Sam felt as if he were hanging, suspended, in some sort of black void, and he felt fear build in him. Before it could become too pronounced, though, the feeling was gone, and Sam and his mentor were in an entirely different place. _

_Looking around, Sam memorized the details of their location, unsure why he was doing it but feeling that it was important to do. He turned his attention to the demon, who had let go of him and moved away. _

_"Where are we?" he asked, puzzled. _

_"This is…my home, for all intents and purposes. It's where I often stay, at least."_

_"A warehouse. You live at a warehouse."_

_The demon shrugged. "It isn't bad. I've made it comfortable. And it's very quiet, looked-over, perfect for…"_

_"Hiding?"_

_"I prefer to think of it as being discreet, but…yes. This is where I live, and now, it will be where you live, as well."_

_"You want me to live with you?"_

_"That will be most sufficient for your training, I believe." _

_"Training?" Sam asked, only now registering this._

_"Yes. Here, you will learn to control your abilities, and begin to hone new ones. I will teach you all that I know, and you will have power you have only dreamed of. And we can begin immediately, after you do only one thing for me." _

_"What do I have to do?" Sam asked, trying to keep the dread out of his voice as he remembered his last "assignment." _

_The demon leaned in close to him, and murmured softly, "You need to wake up."_

XXX

At exactly the same moment, in very different places, Sam and Dean Winchester sat straight up with identical gasps.

* * *

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning.  
We didn't start the fire._

_But when we are gone,_

_It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on…_

* * *

AN: All right, the first order of business is this: I have to throw out a big thank you to Silver Kitten—which totally slipped my mind in the last chapter—for pretty much saving my muse from a long vacation! I'm serious, people, the thing was packing up for the Bahamas, completely disgusted with me for choosing a fic idea that was WAY too ambitious for me. But now it's back, thanks to you, Kitten!

And the second order of business: Believe it or not, this is going to be a VERY short story. There are only two chapters and an epilogue left, so it's not gonna be this long drawn-out thing like _In Omnia Paratus._ Promise!

Third order of business: REVIEW, PLEASE!


	4. Chapter 3: The Waking Hours

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_No, we didn't light it but we tried to fight it._

- - - - - - - - - -

Dr. Richardson was just leaving the room when his patient woke up. He was almost out the door when a series of small gasps drew his attention, and he turned around.

Dean Winchester was sitting bolt-upright in his bed, and the doctor's first instinct was to check for torn stitches, but something told him not to move just yet. So, against all of his medical training, he ignored the potential for further injury and instead waited to be noticed.

Dean's eyes met his quickly enough, and Dr. Richardson was surprised at what he found there—not the fear that he would have expected, or even pain, but rather, confusion and even a touch of…anger?

XXX

Dean wasn't exactly surprised to be in a hospital. He wasn't sure why, but he wasn't. What _did_ surprise him was that he was alone, except for the gawking doctor in the doorway. Even if John couldn't truly be expected to stick around, Dean would have thought his brother would be there, hovering in his usual, annoying fashion.

He finally looked at the doctor, and found himself summing all his thoughts up in one sentence.

"What the _hell_?"

XXX

Dr. Richardson took the murmured curse as a chance to move, and so he walked to the end of the bed and picked up the clipboard hanging there, while Dean Winchester stared at him, his expression now unreadable.

There was silence in the room as he did a quick exam, checking Dean's pulse, double-checking the stitches, all the while trying to figure out what it was about this man that made him so damned _uncomfortable_.

Finally, though, he just _had_ to speak—no matter what he said, he just had to break the silence.

"You've been here six days," he informed Dean, because that was the first thing most patients wanted to know.

Dean didn't respond in any way—he seemed to be waiting for something.

"You've been in a light coma as a result of your injuries in the accident—you remember the accident, yes?"

Dean nodded, but he didn't speak. If he hadn't heard earlier, Dr. Richardson would have thought that the man couldn't talk at all.

"Well—uh—anyway, you don't seem to have any lasting damage, but just to be safe I'd like to keep you here for a while, at least until the stitches in your chest can come out."

Still no reaction, and Dr. Richardson began to feel truly creeped out.

"I can't tell you anything more about your condition until we run some more tests, so I'll set those up for as soon as possible if that's all right."

Dean didn't seem to give a damn about a single thing he'd said.

_Okay, this guy is off-the-chards weird…_he thought as he turned to leave, adding some vague comments about the things Dean could expect in the next couple of days. _I mean, first he goes into the strangest coma I've ever seen, and now he doesn't even seem to care that he was in a life-threatening car-accident…_

"Is there any point in asking you where my family is?"

Dr. Richardson stopped dead, jolted to the core.

Family? But…there was no one to call… 

And then something occurred to him—something that, sadly hadn't come to him earlier.

There had been another man in the car. Dr, Richardson hadn't thought of it before, because if Dean had been really _close_ to anyone, they would have been on the contact list, right? But now he was beginning to think that maybe…

"Was your father the one with you in the car, by any chance?" he asked carefully.

"If I said yes, would it matter?"

Dr. Richardson sighed heavily. _He isn't going to make this easy on me…_

"Mr. Winchester—"

"Don't ever call me that."

"Uh…Dean, then?"

"Just tell me what's going on, man."

The doctor shook his head slightly and, seeing no other option, dropped into his doctor's mask and reconciled himself to imparting the bad news.

"There _was_ someone in the car with you. No ID, so we never found out who—"

"You know, the Gettysburg address was only a page long, and that was about a war. Skip to the punch line."

Dr. Richardson gritted his teeth, trying to remember that this guy probably wasn't always this…abrasive, and that just because his patient was being this way, it didn't mean that he could just blurt out what he was forced to say.

"The man we found—I can only assume it was your father—was…he was DOA, Dean."

He waited, trying to gauge the man's reaction, predicting anything from tears to denial to rage.

What he didn't expect was for Dean's features to harden into a mask to rival his own.

Then he spoke, and a shiver went through Dr. Richardson when he noticed that Dean's voice had gone absolutely flat.

"And my brother?"

Dr. Richardson's face must have shown his confusion, even through the mask, because Dean went on to clarify, still in that disturbing monotone.

"The guy who was driving. Where is he?"

"Uh…I'm sorry, Dean, but you must be confused. There was nobody else in the car."

XXX

For a long moment, Dean sat rock-still, looking unseeingly at the doctor, without a thought going through his mind. Then it passed, and he found the doctor watching him sympathetically. Normally, that would have put his temper over the edge, but now he just felt cold.

In choppy, mechanical movements, Dean tore the IV needle out of his hand, and detached himself from the machines, ignoring the stings. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the stitches in his chest pulled tight. For a moment, he was worried they would tear, but somehow they held strong as he stood up straight and began to search for his clothes.

"What are you—?"

"I need something to wear," Dean said. "And my wallet."

"But…but you can't possibly mean to—"

"Get the hell out of here? That's _exactly_ what I mean to do," Dean replied.

"Dean, you've just woken up after surviving a crash that should have killed you. You have thirty-five stitches in you just to keep your chest from ripping open again, and your internal injuries—not to mention your head injury—are just beginning to heal. And—"

"I don't care about any of that," Dean said flatly. "I can still walk, so I'm leaving."

"I really have to insist—"

"_Clothes,_ automaton. _Now_," Dean barked, and this time he managed not to show it when pain shot through his chest. "And whatever stupid forms will get me out of here…_within the next fifteen minutes_."

XXX

_He's lost his mind, _Dr. Richardson thought, staring at Dean, who looked completely serious as he spat out his ludicrous joke.

_It _has_ to be a joke, right?_

But apparently it wasn't, because when he didn't leave right away, Dean snapped, "Would you _go_!"

So, the doctor went, with no idea why he was following the insane orders.

_Clearly _I've_ lost _my_ mind, as well…_

XXX

Dean sat back down on the bed again as soon as Dr. Richardson left, his legs almost too shaky to hold him. The confrontation had nearly drained him, and already he began to wonder if he should do this after all…

_You idiot! Don't even _think_ that!_ he berated himself, unable to believe the sudden turn of his thoughts.

So, in order to take his mind off his pain, he turned his thoughts to a much more important matter.

Sam.

The quack doctor had said something about him being here for six days. That was six days that Sam had been God-knew-where, because he had to have been taken sometime after the accident but before the ambulance arrived. And there was no doubt in Dean's mind that his brother had been taken—in fact, he was sure that was the entire reason behind the crash.

But where did the dreams factor in?

Because Dean did remember the dreams—every second of them. He remembered watching Sam calmly burning John and Dean himself, and he remembered watching Sam talk to a strange man who seemed to appear and disappear without warning. He remembered watching Sam as his brother sat in his trance-like state for three days and nights, and he remembered more talking. And he remembered jumping to another place entirely—a warehouse's back entrance, at the end of a wide alley.

That was where Sam was now. Dean had no idea how he knew it, but he did.

So now, all Dean had to do was find the right ally, and the right warehouse.

In an entire city of alleys and warehouses.

Without a car.

Or an internet connection.

Or any name to go on.

_Damn it_.

XXX

Dr. Walter Richardson stood with the nurse at the front desk, watching as Dean Winchester walked gingerly out the door to meet his taxi. It looked like every move pained him, but he never faltered, not once.

"It must be something _powerful_ that drives him," the doctor murmured. "Something that caused him to push past injuries that should keep him bedridden for at _least_ a couple of weeks…he shouldn't even be _standing_, let alone checking himself out."

"It may be something more powerful than you think," the nurse murmured, her voice gone quiet with shock.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Richardson asked, turning to look at her. He was surprised to see that her face had gone white, and a thrill of alarm went through him as he took a step toward her. "What's the matter?"

Shakily, the nurse pointed to her computer. "I just ran his file. According to this, Dean Winchester was wanted for several murders."

"…Was?" Dr. Richardson asked, his mind reeling as he tried to grasp the idea that he'd unwittingly been harboring a known murderer for the past six days.

"Yes. It says here that he was killed three months ago, in St. Louis."

- - - - - - - - - - -

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning.  
We didn't start the fire._

_But when we are gone,_

_It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on…_

- - - - - - - - - -

AN: I know, that was kind of a random place to end the chapter. I was going to just end it with Dean, but then this little scene popped into my head and I couldn't resist, so voila! Sometimes you just gotta go with it…

Anyways, we're drawing to the conclusion here, folks! And it's seriously not as complicated as it looks…I hope…

Review, please!


	5. Chapter 4: Learning to Stand

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_No, we didn't light it but we tried to fight it._

- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -

_You feel like a candle in a hurricane,_

_Just like a person with a broken frame. _

_Alone and helpless, _

_Like you've lost your fight,_

_But you'll be all right. _

_You'll be all right._

Dean had the taxi driver take him to the nearest motel as fast as possible. If the driver noticed his panic, he didn't say anything about it, which was a good thing because Dean probably wouldn't have been able to handle it if he had.

The cab pulled up in the lot of Motel 6 in scarcely five minutes, but Dean barely managed to sit still even that long. He jumped out, shoved a ten into the cabby's hand, barked a quick "keep the change" and hurried inside as quickly as his injuries allowed.

Within another few minutes, Dean had a room, and as soon as he limped inside, he went directly to the phone and the book under it.

He spent the next minutes writing down the addresses of every warehouse in the city, his nose buried in the phonebook and, alternately, a large road map of the area.

He came up with thirty-eight different locations, scattered _everywhere_. And to find Sam he'd have to search every one…if Sam was even still there.

There wasn't enough _time_!

Dean felt his despair rising as he set the book aside and studied the map, every once in a while rubbing at his chest in irritation.

_There's no way I can get to all these places quick enough…_he thought, angrily sketching out a route to each building. But narrowing them down seemed just as impossible, if not more so.

To his shame, he felt his eyes brimming, and he furiously brushed a hand across them. And for a moment, that seemed to work. But as he went back to his thoughts, a tear fell. It was followed by another, and within seconds there was an unstoppable _flood_ of them, along with a stream of thoughts—chiefly of Sam and…his father.

No, no, no, don't think about that…God, don't think about that… 

But though he managed to block out the thoughts for now—it actually wasn't that hard, considering how very _unreal_ it all seemed—stopping the flood of tears was, for some reason, much more difficult.

Dean hadn't cried in years—not really. He'd come close the night he'd been reunited with John, but even then nothing had been brave enough to escape. The last time he could remember _really_ crying he had been twelve and had his first broken arm during a hunt, and even _that_ hadn't lasted more than a few minutes.

But now, suddenly, he was sitting here in this crappy little two-person motel room, at the tiny table, head buried in his hands, his entire body heaving with sobs, and it seemed like it would never _stop._

'_Cause when push comes to shove,_

_You taste what you're made of._

_You might bend 'til you break_

'_Cause it's all you can take._

_On your knees you look up,_

_Decide you've had enough._

_You get mad, you get strong,_

_Wipe your hands, shake it off._

_Then you stand._

_Then you stand. _

By the time Dean ran dry, his eyes and through burned and his chest ached and he felt more exhausted than he had in a lone time, and he certainly didn't feel any better than before, but at least he had gotten that out of the way.

Sighing heavily, and swallowing to try and bring some moisture back into his throat, Dean sat up straighter in his chair, and resigned himself to a long, long search.

He was just lifting the phone to call another cab when the headache hit him.

It was worse than any other headache he had ever experienced—it felt quite capable of splitting his skull wide open. And with the pain came…a picture?

It was sort of like the dreams in the hospital, but…also different. For one thing, the pain didn't diminish, and for another, he had been confused during his dreams, but now, he somehow knew the meaning of what was going on.

_He felt that he wasn't…Dean anymore. Well, that wasn't strictly true—deep inside, he knew he was still himself. But he _felt_ like someone else—a very frightened someone else. He felt his heart thumping in his chest and he felt frozen in fear._

_Without any control whatsoever, he felt his mind flitting back through the same things from his dreams, only now he remembered them from a first-person point of view. Luckily, it wasn't long before he came back to the present, and found himself looking around, details leaping out at him as he did._

_There was a quiet—but somehow deliberate—sound behind him then, and his heart jumped into his throat as he whirled around…_

And just as suddenly as they had come, the pictures faded, the pain began to lessen, and Dean was very much himself again, and thinking one thing: _he'd just had one of Sam's visions._

That was the only possibility. It was an _insane_ possibility, but it was still the only one. He'd had one of Sam's visions, which was just weird.

But that paled before the thought that jumped into his head next.

He had a location. Somehow, someway, the vision had given him that knowledge.

Hands shaking, Dean grabbed the phone and began to dial.

_Life's like a novel_

_With the end ripped out,_

_The edge of a canyon_

_With only one way down._

_Take what you're given before it's gone._

_Start holding on, keep holding on._

Sam stood as if stuck, staring at the source of the small sound—whom he recognized immediately—and trying to sort out exactly how he'd ended up in this position.

The being standing before him seemed, at first sight, to be a man. He was tall, almost a head taller than Sam, and every movement bespoke poise and an almost catlike grace. With pale, pale skin and delicate limbs, he was almost…pretty.

But then he stepped into the light fully, and Sam got a good look into his eyes. And as good-looking as the rest of him was, those eyes just looked…_wrong_. For one thing, they were a disturbing yellow-orange, and the pupils were vertical and narrow, like a bizarre, twisted mix between a snake and a cat.

Sam felt a chill go down his spine as the creature looked at him—and looked, and looked, and _looked_, without so much as a blink. Finally, to distract himself more than anything, Sam tore his gaze from the countenance to look around the place.

It seemed to be the inside of a warehouse—a very lived-in warehouse. Well, that much checked out with the pictures rushing through his mind. Sam felt a familiar stab of discomfort at the thought—he did not _want_ the memories to check out, because that might mean that they were something other than dreams.

Which might mean that Dad and Dean…

"You woke quickly."

Sam's eyes snapped quickly back to the demon, and saw with no small amount of discomfort that the yellow eyes had not moved away from him. Trying to gather his wits, Sam opened his mouth to speak, only to close it quickly as he realized that he could think of nothing to say.

"I have to admit that I set your sleep to be much longer than that." But the demon did not seem perturbed by this—merely a bit more interested than he had seemed in the—what? Dreams? Visions? Or…memories, as horrible as the thought was?

"But then, perhaps that was to be expected, and I was simply remiss for not thinking of it," the demon mused thoughtfully. Sam just stared at him in a mixture of confusion and fear. "Well?" the creature asked, raising a long-fingered hand to brush his bangs back. "I can see that you have questions. Please, ask them."

Sam's confusion increased. Here he was, standing in this old warehouse, and all evidence pointed to him being a prisoner. And yet, he was unbound, unhurt, and being invited to ask any questions he had.

It just didn't add up.

But he had no desire to try leaving. He had no doubt that the demon could stop him easily—there had to be a reason that he was free to move around, after all. So his only choice was to stall for time, until…well, he had no idea what he was hoping for, but maybe _something_ would happen soon.

Until then, he would just try hard to keep calm.

Still, his voice shook slightly, despite his attempts. "Did you…cause our accident?"

"Of course," the demon replied without missing a beat, as if this were the simplest question Sam could have asked. "How else was I to get you here?"

Sam had expected it, but for some reason, the words _hurt_. "Dad and Dean…?"

The demon waved a hand dismissively. "They are of no consequence to me. They could still be alive. I honestly couldn't tell you."

Well, it was better than he'd expected—he could at least disregard that particular memory as just that.

"How long have I been here?"

"Six days."

The swift replied unnerved Sam—it was as if he already knew the questions, but was waiting for Sam to ask them in a bizarre emulation of politeness.

"Where are we, exactly?"

The demon was obviously not bothered by the idea of Sam knowing where they were. "In a warehouse in the middle of Salvation. You were brought here after the accident, for safekeeping."

The fact that he was being made to sound like cargo was the last thing on Sam's mind at the moment.

"What did you mean when you said you 'set my sleep'?"

The demon raised an eyebrow. "I meant exactly that. When you came here, you were unconscious. You should have remained so for little more than a few hours, but that didn't fit my needs. So I deepened your sleep so that it would last for many days instead."

"And…why did you need to do that?" Sam asked, almost fearing the answer.

"Well, of course, in order to dream you must be in a deep sleep. And it was very necessary that you would dream."

"So all of that…it wasn't real?" Sam asked, already daring at relief.

The demon shrugged. "It's all relative, isn't it? Real, illusionary…what does it matter?"

Sam didn't know where he got the guts—right now he was more frightened than he could ever remember being—but he threw a glare at the entity. "You said you would answer."

A sigh. "Remember, Sam, that this is a courtesy. I could have left you in the dark, but I decided to answer your questions. That doesn't mean you should push me."

Sam kept his gaze level for as long as he could, but it wasn't long before he had to drop it. What was it about this guy that made him so…pathetic?

"Yes, it was all an illusion," the demon went on, and the exaggerated kindness in his voice made Sam actually flinch. "But at the same time, it was real. It was showing you what will happen should you come to your senses and join me."

Sam snorted derisively before he could stop himself. "So _that's_ why I'm here. We've come back to this."

"So it would seem. But only because I wanted to give my proposal properly. The first time, I was rather…preoccupied."

"Yeah, with ripping out my brother's rib cage!" Sam said but his anger did not strengthen him. In fact, he felt his energy draining as the feeling mounted.

"That was only necessary."

"That still leaves the question of why the hell I would join you. You nearly killed my family!"

"Why does that even _matter_?" the demon asked, real emotion coloring his voice for the first time. But the next time he spoke, he had adopted a smooth, silky, calming tone. "Sam, think about it. What have those two ever really _done_ for you?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, ready to say something, _anything_, to defend his family. But he was swiftly and effectively cut off.

"_Think about it_. All that they've ever done, everything they've told you was for the common good—can't you see that it was all for _them_? Them and their petty revenge?"

The voice got even more soothing, and though Sam wanted nothing more than to cover his ears, it was as if the words, the voice, were bespelled, and he kept listening.

"They've done nothing but hurt you. Your father never let you do anything normal, and because of that you didn't have any friends your entire childhood. He wasn't even going to let you go to college—he threw you out of the _house_, and it was only then that you felt you should. Then Dean came and dragged you away, and that weekend you lost the only woman you ever loved."

Sam kept listening, and as the speech went on, he could himself having to block out thoughts of how much sense some of this made.

"They've always hidden things from you—for your entire life they've had secrets. And I know you've felt it, if you refuse to say so. But if you will remember your dreams, you will realize that _I_ have been nothing but upfront with you. Everything I told you in the dream was completely true, and I withheld nothing then as I am withholding nothing now. And I'll do you one better—I will swear that should you join me, I'll continue to share with you—my secrets, and my power."

Sam felt himself becoming strangely lulled by the soft, lilting voice. When had it started sounding like music…?

"Think about how wonderful it could be, Sam. Remember how it was in your dreams, when you didn't have to _feel_? It really could be that way—no thought, no consequence—only power. The power to protect yourself from any more loss. The power to stop being so angry all the time. The power to free yourself."

Sam didn't care about the turn to motivational speaking this conversation had taken. In fact, he didn't particularly care about anything at the moment. The voice was so relaxing…

"And as difficult as it may be to believe, I don't want to hurt you. In fact, that's the _opposite_ of what I want. I want to take _care_ of you. And on top of that, I _need_ you, like your father and your brother never have."

The voice dropped into a near-whisper, and Sam felt himself beginning to actually fall asleep on his feet.

"Sam, say you will join me. Let me help you."

Sam was so tired…so tired of _feeling_…so tired of _life…_

He can make it end… 

"Join me, Sam. I know it's what we _both_ want."

_Well…why not? It's not as if he's completely wrong…_

He opened his mouth to agree.

**SAM! **

The voice rang out in his head, and he felt a deep pang of shock. _Dean…?_

**Yes, you idiot. And I can't even believe you just thought what you thought!**

_How are you…?_

**I have no idea. Just shut up and listen to me. You're about to cross a serious line here, and I swear to God, if you do, I will beat you down myself.**

_But Dean…_

**No, listen. This _thing_ cannot help you, no matter what it says. It's not human, it has no compassion, and all it wants is to kill. And it wants to use you for that. But _you can't let it._ If you do, you'll end up killing _me_. **

_I would _never…

**You think that now. But just trust me. That thing could make you not care. At all. **

That's impossible, though! 

**It's already got you seriously considering joining it…the thing that killed Mom and Jessica! Getting you to kill us would be just another step. **The voice in Sam's head took on a pleading note now. **I'm coming for you. Don't you give up now, Sammy. Not after what we've been through.**

Looking back, Sam would always think it was the old nickname that did it. In a split second, everything shifted yet again.

The demon was till looking at him, waiting calmly for his reply. Sam faced him, and for a moment he was filled to the brim with uncertainty. But just as suddenly it was gone, and Sam's mind was absolutely calm. He knew a clarity that he had never before seen, and he had a bone-deep understanding of exactly what to do.

Swiftly, he severed the strange connection with Dean, with no warning but a simple "goodbye."

'_Cause when push comes to shove,_

_You taste what you're made of._

_You might bend 'til you break_

'_Cause it's all you can take._

_On your knees you look up,_

_Decide you've had enough._

_You get mad, you get strong,_

_Wipe your hands, shake it off._

_Then you stand._

_Then you stand._

Dean had no idea how he'd ended up linked with his brother. He had felt _something_ from the moment he'd woken in the hospital, but he hadn't even noticed it until the vision. And he hadn't been able to identify it until this very moment.

He had had another vision during the five-minute cab ride, and he finally realized that they came from Sam's point of view. This time he found himself conversing with the demon that had killed his mother, and learning some appalling things. He felt himself being lulled into complacency, and then he felt himself about to agree with the demon's proposal.

A thrill of alarm caused him to jump back into his own mind, and without really thinking about it he'd screamed Sam's name in his head. He didn't know what he'd expected, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Sam replied, sounding just as shocked.

Their conversation had lasted for the remainder of the ride, but then Sam had unceremoniously cut him off and he was left to sit there in a panic until the cabby pulled up to the warehouse, still looking baffled as to why he was there.

Dean jumped out before the car stopped completely, tossed some cash into the driver's lap, and raced inside, wincing with each step.

He took in the scene the instant he got in, closing the door softly behind him and ducking behind a stack of crates, more out of reflex than anything else. Sam was facing the demon, whose back was to Dean, his stance casual but wary. Dean recognized that stance—it meant that the fight was about to begin.

The thought spurred Dean into action, and he stepped out from behind the crates, ignoring the fact that he was unarmed and nearly incapacitated.

"Are we at the fun part yet?" he asked, feigning cheer.

Both Sam and the demon turned quickly as he took two steps forward, heading to stand next to his brother. The demon raised his hand, undoubtedly to strike and end him quickly, but Sam beat him to it, and Dean found himself frozen in place.

It was the strangest feeling—he could still see and hear everything that was going on, but he couldn't move or influence events in any way. And the worst part of it was that there was no doubt that Sam had done this to him.

_Why…_?

Then he looked into Sam's eyes, and he would have yelled it he'd been able to make a sound.

His brother's eyes were jet-black, and absolutely empty, the pupils filling up the whites until they were nearly gone.

What the hell…? 

The demon smirked. "Sam, I thought you didn't want to—"

Sam waved his other hand, the demon was hurled to the far wall mid-sentence, and Dean's confusion grew by leaps and bounds.

Whatever Sam had done, the demon recovered quickly, and was soon on his feet, looking unruffled but very disappointed. "This is your decision, then."

Sam gave no indication that he'd heard—just jerked his head and sent the demon flying again, one of his hands still holding Dean in place.

Once again, the demon leapt up easily, but this time his face blazed angrily, before his expression stilled.

"All right," he said softly. "If that's the way you want it."

Sam was the next one to go flying, and Dean felt a jolt of fear. It turned out to be a groundless fear, though, because Sam jumped up again, unhurt, and dove back in.

Dean felt like he was watching a very violent tennis match—back and forth, one strike for another, Sam first and then the demon. In due time, both of them had actually been injured, if only slightly, but they were still unarmed, neither were going for the kill, both seemed to be tiring, and Dean thought they were still pretty evenly matched.

He had a sudden vision of standing here watching this fight for days, and then of all of them dropping dead at the same time, but of boredom rather than injury.

He would have laughed if he hadn't wanted to scream so badly…

At last, at long last, the demon murmured, "I grow bored now, Sam."

Sam didn't reply—his silence throughout the whole thing had been just plain creepy—but his jaw clenched and for just a second his eyes held a flicker of emotion.

Their next attacks met in mid-air, and Dean could have sworn that he actually _saw_ the energies clash.

Sam grunted and took a step back as if from a physical blow, and the demon smirked. But then the younger Winchester regained his footing, and fought back.

To someone who was just looking on, it would have seemed that Sam and the demon were just standing there, staring at each other, but Dean, nearby, could actually feel the swelling energy, almost strong enough to make his very bones shake. And yet he knew that this was only a fraction of the shattering power that Sam was not only feeling, but _commanding._

Sam began to shake, visibly, and once again came the flash of returned humanity swiftly quelled. He kept sliding back on the floor, but each time he pressed forward determinedly, refusing to back off.

The power in the air began to crest, and Sam began to lose his strength. His knees buckled, and he started to fall, his power breaking…

Dean still couldn't say a word, and he couldn't break his invisible bonds—and even if he could, he somehow knew that if he got any closer to the fight than this, the combined powers in the air would crush him instantly—but there was one way he _could_ help.

Without another thought, he grabbed onto the tremulous psychic connection between himself and his brother, and bolstered Sam's strength with all of his own.

The power strengthened. Held. Grew.

The next seconds were a blur—a blur ending with the demon pinned to the wall as Mary Winchester had been punned to her ceiling so long ago. Then Sam's hand jerked, and there was a deep, long slash across the demon's stomach. Another gesture, and there was a second slice across his chest, so deep that a rib protruded.

Dean felt sick.

The demon gasped, and quivered, and lost. His gaze went, not to Sa, but to Dean, and the older Winchester saw accusation there. But before he could figure it out, the demon murmured a few words in a language Dean didn't recognize, though somehow Sam seemed to. And then he was gone, and there was no indication that he'd ever been there.

Whatever was holding Dean in place disappeared as Sam began to fall.

_Every time you get up_

_And get back in the race_

_One more small piece of you_

_Starts to fall into place._

Sam snapped suddenly back to himself, and it felt as if he had been away from his own body for a very long time. Now that his work was done, the power that had flared inside him was gone as if it had never been, and he was as weak as a kitten. For a moment, he teetered on his feet, and then his legs folded. He let himself fall, with no will left even to keep his own head from smashing into the hard concrete floor.

But he never hit.

Dean caught him.

Dean always caught him.

XXX

Dena's first thought when he caught his brother was that Sam had lost weight.

A lot of weight.

Which had been something he'd needed to _gain_, not lose.

But the thought vanished as he lowered himself and his brother carefully to the ground, Sam sprawled awkwardly across his lap, and Sam looked up at him with normal, lucid eyes. He looked more exhausted than Dean had ever seen him, but he was Sam Winchester again.

He tried to get Sam off his lap and into a more comfortable position, but the younger man grabbed at his jacket and held on, murmuring something that sounded like, "You caught me…"

"Uh…yeah," Dean said, feeling stupid but nevertheless wrapping his arms around his brother in an authentic Dean Winchester Bear Hug. "Well, I figured the last thing you needed today was a concussion, so…"

"Caught me…you always catch me…"

Dean began to feel uneasy. "Are you okay, little brother?"

Sam's fists tightened so that his knuckles turned white. "Sorry I stopped you…"

"Would you _please_ try to start making sense?" Dean asked, throat constricted with suppressed fear for his brother's sanity.

"I thought…you and…it was all _gone_…I thought…but it wasn't." The next words were crystal-clear, a jarring, rational note in the midst of half-insane babble. "Are you all right?"

Dean forced his features into something resembling a smile. "I'm fine, Sammy."

Sam seemed to loosen up a little, and he sagged heavily against Dean. But then the inevitable next question came, and Dean's heart plummeted.

"And…Dad?"

'_Cause when push comes to shove,_

_You taste what you're made of._

_You might bend 'til you break_

'_Cause it's all you can take._

_On your knees you look up,_

_Decide you've had enough._

_You get mad, you get strong,_

_Wipe your hands, shake it off._

_Then you stand._

_Then you stand._

- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -

_We didn't start the fire_

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire,_

_But when we are gone _

_It will still burn on and on and on and on…_

- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -

AN: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_! I blame the long wait on back-to-school madness! It's not my fault, I promise!

Well, anyway, there's only the epilogue left to go now…

Review, please!


	6. Epilogue

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_No, we didn't light it but we're trying to fight it._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -

_John Winchester_

_1958-2006_

That was all the grave marker said.

It seemed unbelievable, almost a crime, but no one had seen fit to add anything, and Dean hadn't been able to pay for more than that. And it hadn't been possible to bury him in Lawrence, next to Mary. So, it was a tiny riot in a tiny Salvation cemetery, or nothing at all.

Sam leaned against the Impala—finally retrieved from the local mechanic and looking none the worse for wear—and watched his brother, standing in front of the grave. He hadn't so much as twitched in the last ten minutes, and Sam was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to get out of here—back to a motel room where he could just curl up in bed and sleep some more and forget all of this for a while.

But there was no way he was going to say any of this to Dean, because that would accomplish nothing except to push Dean into shoving away his own grief, the pain that—despite how hard it was—he nevertheless desperately needed to feel.

So instead, Sam stood by the car, and tried not to look at his father's grave, and gave his brother the time he needed.

It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the debacle with the demon, and Sam could barely wrap his mind around everything his brother had told him—in a flat, toneless, barely-held-together voice—during their cab ride. Of course, he'd been barely coherent at the time, lost in his own exhaustion, but still, the words had hit like blows.

Dean had half-carried him to their hotel room, and sat him down on the bed, and only then had Sam noticed his stiff, painful movements. But when he'd asked, Dean had brushed it off, and no amount of pressing would convince him to say anything other than "I'm fine."

Sam had fallen asleep after that. He had no idea if Dean had gotten any rest, but by the time he woke up nearly twenty hours later, the Impala had been by some means returned, take-out had mysteriously appeared on the table, and Dean was sprawled out on his own bed, reading the family journal for the umpteenth time.

He hadn't said a word—just pointed to the table, and Sam got the message because, after all, it was impossible to misinterpret. But Dean's silence was unnerving—and continued to be so, all through breakfast/lunch/dinner—Sam had no idea what it actually was—and as Sam was dressing, and as Sam did everything else a person does when preparing to face the day.

Sam wanted, so badly, to just _talk_ to his brother, to talk to the last person he had in the whole world, but something held him back, and he found himself instead being as quiet as he could be, all morning long.

In fact, Dean _still_ hadn't said anything to him, beyond asking him if he was okay to go somewhere, and now here he was, and here the silence was, and it would seem that Dean still wasn't talking.

He wasn't angry though. Sam was sure of that.

He just wished he knew the _real_ reason.

A sudden movement startled Sam, and he looked back on time to see Dean kneel down and reach to the ground. He dug his fingers into the turned earth that hadn't yet had time to grow over. Slowly, he tilted his palm and let the dirt slide out of it, and back to its home. Then, as if he had completed something that had to be done, he turned and strode back to the car without glancing back.

For a long time, the brothers lounged against the Impala in silence, both looking at the ground and the sky and not at each other.

Then Dean spoke, suddenly, and Sam nearly fell over.

"I've been thinking about how we could have done what we did."

That sentence could have encompassed a myriad of things, but Sam had some idea of what he meant. "You come up with anything?"

Dean shrugged. "It's pretty simple, I guess. I've read that intuition is heightened during REM sleep—which both of us were stuck in for a week—and I guess since you already had the psychic thing, it sort of…spun? That must be how I shared your…dreams."

"But Dean," Sam protested, his common sense warring with his desire to just forget the whole thing had to whatever extent was humanly possible. "I can't read minds! And besides, how did we stay connected after we woke up?"

Dean was quiet for another moment, but before Sam could fear that he'd gone silent again, he continued, sounding thoughtful. "You're a tool, Sam. I don't know what for, but _something_ has to be controlling your abilities if you can't."

Sam wanted to ask where this incredibly flattering explanation was going, but he held his tongue.

"And I think whatever's in charge here decided that you needed me, and it made it possible for me to find you."

"Are you talking something God-like?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "No. Just…something."

Sam thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. "You're reaching, Dean," he murmured, but he was uncertain, reluctant as he was to admit it.

"Yeah…maybe," Dean agreed, sounding unconvinced.

They were quiet for a long time, and Sam found his mind going over everything he could remember of the last week again, and trying to figure out what it was that made him feel so…off.

"'To the last of this and anything…you can choose.'"

He wasn't sure where the words came from, and in fact he didn't realize he'd said them until he noticed Dean staring at him, puzzled, and possibly worrying about his sanity again.

"It's…from a book Jess used to read obsessively. She was forever quoting those books, and that one just…stuck in my head. I completely forgot about it until just now…"

Sam paused, trying to figure out what he was talking about, and then, without warning, words began tumbling uncontrollably from his mouth.

"But I didn't choose this time. I had the chance to, but then…you came along."

Dean opened his mouth, looking furious, but Sam went on—not out of any desire to ignore his brother, but because he couldn't seem to stop _talking_.

"I was about to go with him, you know. I was about to let him take care of everything. But you didn't let me."

"Sammy, what are you—?"

"You convinced me to make the choice to come back with you. The right choice, I guess is what we're calling it. You made it so I could get back to my life, back to the good side. You stopped me from completely losing my mind."

Sam's voice dropped then, and his next words were soft, so soft that he knew Dean barely heard him.

"And I don't know if I want to thank you for that…or hate you."

Dean didn't say anything to that. He seemed…stunned.

"But I think…someday…I'll thank you."

Dean stared straight ahead and didn't reply. But something flickered across his face—something sad and lonely and beautiful—before he finally said something. "You know it's not over."

Sam sighed heavily. "Yeah. I know."

"But…for now, I guess…it could be."

"What are you saying?"

"Well…this demon that killed Mom is dead. Or it seems to be, anyway. And even if it isn't, you've pretty much kicked its ass bad enough that it won't turn up again any time soon. So…I guess, if you want to go back to Stanford…now's the time for it."

For a long time, Sam was too surprised to say a word. He hadn't even _thought_ about Stanford since before the accident.

Dean waited for a reply, but finally he seemed to decide that he wasn't going to get one.

"So…I guess we should start the drive there in the morning. I mean, it's a _long_ drive, you know. And I don't want to spend any longer than I have to chaperoning you around. All the jobs haven't just stopped existing and I want to get back to hunting as soon as I can, so…"

"Dean."

Dean stopped talking as Sam's soft voice cut him off.

"Could we just…drive…for a while?"

Dean finally turned to face him, and after a moment of looking shocked, he smiled—just a little, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"Yeah. We could do that."

So, with one last look back at their father's grave, Sam and Dean Winchester—who _would_ be the last of their line, but that was many years yet in the coming—climbed into the Impala, and left Salvation, never to return to that sad place.

They had no agenda, no route, and no idea of where they were going.

They just…drove.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -

_We didn't start the fire. _

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_But when we are gone,_

_It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on…_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -

AN: Well, that's it. It's done. The shortest multi-chapter fic I've ever written—and also one of the most difficult to finish. Please, please, PLEASE give me the feedback my little heart craves!

And thanks, thanks, THANKS for all of you who did review!

Next story coming…as soon as I can finish the first chapter!


	7. Alternate Ending

AN: Well, what can I say? This little ditty just sorta popped into my head when I was in the middle of my next one-shot fic, so I had to write it down. It's just another way this story could have ended. Enjoy!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_No, we didn't light it but we're trying to fight it._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_The demon gasped, and quivered, and lost. His gaze went, not to Sa, but to Dean, and the older Winchester saw accusation there. But before he could figure it out, the demon murmured a few words in a language Dean didn't recognize, though somehow Sam seemed to. And then he was gone, and there was no indication that he'd ever been there._

XXX

Dean was relieved from his invisible bonds the instant the demon disappeared. Rubbing his aching wrist and arms in relief, he immediately started toward Sam, who was standing as if frozen in the middle of the large warehouse, staring unseeingly at a wall.

When Dean's shoe slapped against the concrete floor, Sam started as if a gunshot had split the air. He turned quickly to face Dean, taking a single step back in the same movement.

Dean stopped.

Their eyes met, and for a long time they just watched each other, Dean resisting the urge to rush to his younger brother because that just wasn't the thing to do right now.

Sam's eyes were lucid, brown, _human_ again, and there was no doubt that he was no longer treading the line between good and evil, but his expression still didn't hold any real emotion, and Dean felt a chill go through him.

Then Sam was running past him, out into the night.

XXX

Dean stood as if stunned for a long, long time after Sam left, his heart pounding like a snare drum and every part of him tense and shaky.

His first instinct had been to go after Sam, but by the time the heavy door had thudded closed behind him, his brother was nowhere to be found.

And besides, twenty years of experience had taught him that chasing Sam was fruitless—if the younger Winchester didn't want to be found, then he simply wouldn't be. He would turn up when he felt like it and not before.

And for most of their childhood, telling himself that had worked.

But now…

Sam had been through a traumatic ordeal. He must be exhausted, possibly injured. It was certain that he was out there alone, and it was also a fairly safe bed that he was blaming himself for all of this.

Now, all bets were off, and it was actually possible that this time, Sam _wouldn't_ come back.

Standing outside the warehouse that would haunt his memories for a long time to come, Dean wracked his brains for a plan to take care of yet another problem. Without really noticing, he began to walk slowly back toward the street, his steps preoccupied.

He walked all the way back to his motel without thought, and he didn't even notice the dull ache of his injury.

By the time he walked into his room, he still didn't have anything resembling a plan, but he'd managed to stumble on a slightly comforting thought.

At least Sam was comparatively _safe. _The demon that had dogged his steps for over twenty years was gone, and now, at least for a while, he wasn't in constant danger. And besides, after the display he'd seen tonight…who was to say Sam couldn't handle anything that came his way?

Sighing, Dean sat on his bed, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't noticed before, but he was _tired_. He couldn't sleep, though…now was a bad time to sleep…

XXX

Dean woke scarcely an hour later with at least the beginning of a plan.

Well, he still had no idea of how to track his brother down. But he did know how he had to begin—he certainly couldn't move freely around the city until he had his own transportation back.

Luckily, Salvation made up for its overabundance of warehouses by only having a couple of mechanics, so it wouldn't be too difficult to track down his car.

So at least _something_ was going right this week.

XXX

"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to wait until morning!"

Or…maybe not.

Dean barely held his temper in check as he faced off with the stubborn woman at the desk of the local mechanic's front offices, whom he'd been arguing with for a quarter of an hour so far.

"I _know_ you guys are closed! But I called less than an hour ago and you told me that _you have my car._ And now I need it _back_." He didn't know how to make it any simpler.

But the woman was shaking her head, her mouth forming a thin little line. "You'll have to wait until morning."

She jumped in surprise when a pair of hands slammed onto her desk, and the stern look changed to alarm as Dean stepped closer and leaned over the large piece of furniture.

"Look. I swear I'm not gonna hurt you. It's the last thing I want to do. But you don't understand! I _need_ that car back. You can't possibly know or understand why, but it's _important!"_ He bit off the rampage with a grunt, and his hand went almost unconsciously to his chest.

The woman's eyes softened as her eyes followed the gesture, and next time she spoke, she sounded truly sympathetic.

"I really am sorry, sir, but…"

"But I'll have to wait until morning." Dean sighed heavily. "Fine. What time do you open?"

XXX

Dean was leaning against the door when the owner of the shop came to open the next morning. Actually, he'd been there by the time the sun showed its face, but the place was closed until eight.

The woman Dean had been arguing with must have talked about him, because the owner didn't seem surprised to find him there. In fact, apparently the fact amused him, to judge by his booming laughter. Of course, Dean couldn't be sure—he looked like a guy who laughed at most things. Kind of weird for a car mechanic, but what did it matter as long s he got his car back?

"So why're you so anxious to get this car back, anyhow?" the mechanic asked, making small talk as he ran Dean's fake credit card.

Dean shrugged. "Just have…business, is all, and I've already waited a night to finish it, so…"

"I got it, I got it," the other man replied, finishing up the receipt. "You from the city or something?"

Dean snatched the paper and the card, pocketing them as he replied. "I'm from all over. What's that got to do with anything?" The mechanic opened his mouth to answer, but Dean cut him off. "Never mind. Can I have my car now?"

XXX

Five minutes later, Dean was behind the wheel again, and even in his worry for Sam he felt a sort of elation at the knowledge that he had the old Impala back. But then it was gone, and all that was left was cold despair, because as of yet he still had no plan. And he had to have one—clearly just waiting wasn't going to cut it this time.

Without him really noticing, the car began to move along the route toward the local cemetery. He was still lost in thought when he parked and he stepped out. It wasn't until he actually stepped onto the gravel path wending its way through the graves and mausoleums and carefully cultivated gardens that he realized he had no idea where to go.

_Guess is doesn't matter now, though. _Actually, it may have been better that way. It would give him time to think.

There weren't too many graves, the town being so small, but there were enough that Dean was looking at quite a walk if he wanted to check them all. He paced slowly through the neatly mowed lawns, looking at each marker and finding names like Old Tom Huckleberry and Wise Ol' Williams.

In about twenty minutes he neared the other end of the cemetery and began to run out of gravestones. But he knew that the grave had to be there, by simple logic, and so he kept going.

Until he reached the more sparse edges of the area, at which time he stopped dead, and for one very practical reason.

For a long time, he couldn't get any closer. He just stood there, watching Sam, crouched in front of a grave. As he looked on, one of Sam's hands drifted up, and his finger carefully traced the letters etched deeply into the stone slab.

Dean's thoughts were quite mixed as he looked at his brother. The dominant feeling, of course, was an immense relief at finding his brother, and joy that Sam seemed physically unhurt. But then came worry about Sam's mental health, and fear of him running off again, and a weird longing to just turn and run right now before he had to face the questions.

He was about to go with the last idea when Sam suddenly stood up, turned around, and looked straight at him, and Dean froze like a deer in headlights.

Neither of them spoke. Dean wasn't sure what to say, and besides, he was afraid that his voice would scare Sam off again. And so they studied each other, carefully, and were silent.

Finally, though, Sam spoke first, with only a slight change of expression.

"Are you hurt?"

It was one of the last questions Dean had expected, but he shook his head with an outward show of calm that he thought highly admirable under the circumstances. Then he took a hesitant step forward, and his confidence was boosted when Sam didn't move away from him.

"What about you? Are you all right?"

Sam chuckled, his tone so devoid of any humor that Dean shuddered, and turned back toward the grave.

"Am I all right? That's…a really good question…"

Dean ignored the sudden shame welling up in him, and took another step.

"Where did you go last night?"

Sam didn't turn from the grave.

"I don't know. I just…walked. Everywhere. And…I ended up here." He shook his head. "I don't know why. I didn't know…"

Dean noticed then that Sam's voice was scratchy and hoarse and…broken. He stepped forward again, and Sam kept talking.

"Did you see him before he died?"

Dean winced at the blunt question, but he answered anyway.

"No. I was still comatose."

Sam looked back at him, startled, but after a moment the veil dropped again and he turned away.

"So this is the world we live in now."

His voice was soft and sad, and Dean sudden;y felt as if he was intruding on something very private.

"Well…yeah."

"It's different."

"Yeah."

Just about out of options, Dean decided to try for humor. He took another step.

"But we don't have an evil demon hunting us anymore, so it's actually an upper."

Far from wrenching a smile from Sam, the words had the opposite affect. Sam whirled and spoke heatedly, angrily.

"You should have let him have me."

Dean's first reaction was disbelief, and a desire to yell very, very loudly. He swallowed the impulse, and took another step. Five more to Sam…He forced himself to speak calmly.

"How can you say that, Sam?"

"Because if you had let it take me before, Dad would still be alive."

So, here was another thing for Sam to blame himself for. Great.

"You can't know that for sure, Sam. We don't know what caused the accident."

"I do. I can feel it. The demon caused it so that he could get me."

Two more steps. He was acting like Sam was a suicidal maniac, but he didn't care. Rushing him now would do more harm than it could possibly do good.

"If you had just let it have me…you and Dad could have been free. Of _all_ this—hunting, revenge, this _life_."

"That's a load of crap, and you know it," Dean replied calmly. Another step.

"Do I? Do I know it?" Sam asked. "I don't, Dean! It would just have been…better. For _all of us_."

Dean didn't want to thing about what that meant. Sam told him anyway.

"I'm so tired, Dean. I've _been_ tired…but I couldn't rest. And then this demon came along, and offered me that chance. All this death and pain and hurt…he was going to make it go _away_. He offered to make things _simple_. I'd love for things to be simple…and I would have been _happy_! Don't you want me to be happy, Dean?"

He sounded five again, his voice broken and childish.

It was only then that the truth dawned on Dean. Sometime in the last months, his brother had become a majorly screwed up young man. And now, with this whole ordeal, he had moved precariously close to toppling off the edge.

Dean couldn't allow that to happen.

But he had stopped moving forward for the moment. He simply couldn't _move_.

"You are so far off here, kid," he murmured. "Of course I want you to be happy. But what that demon was offering…it would have taken lives—all people who would die at _your_ hands. That would have been the price of your 'happiness.'"

"What if I don't care?" Sam demanded. "What if I'm just _tired_ of caring all the time? What if…what if I just want it to be over, and I don't care how?"

"Stop it, Sam! You've _got_ to stop saying things like that, Sam!" Dean said, and the raw fear in his voice must have caught Sam's attention, because the younger Winchester did stop. "Do you have any idea how _ridiculous_ you sound? All this stuff like 'I don't care' and 'I just want it to end'…it's not _you_! And…okay, I'm not denying that the demon caused the accident and I'm also not denying that it did that to get to you, but unless you tracked it down and asked it to please kill us all in a huge car crash, _you didn't cause it_! And you didn't kill Mom or Jessica either! God, how many times do I have to _explain_ this to you!"

He was almost shouting now, shattering the peace of the early morning air. But with the next words, his voice softened again.

"Dad and I…we hated a lot of people, and a lot of things. Blamed just about everyone for our lot in life. But you…you were never, not for a single second, included in that list. So for the love of all that's good and the hatred of all that's not, _stop saying so_!"

Dean didn't thing he'd ever in his life been as angry as he was right then.

Sam looked at the ground, and then back to the grave, and one single tear made its way down, until it froze halfway down his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"DAMN IT, SAM!" He did shout now, at the top of his considerably-sized volume, and Sam actually jumped. "I TOLD YOU TO STOP SAYING THAT! THAT MEANS YOU DON'T SAY IT ANYMORE! NOT THAT YOU REPEAT IT TWO SECONDS LATER!"

Sam sighed. "I meant I'm sorry for making you say all that. I know you hated having to."

And it was true. Dean did hate opening up…hated any show of emotion, really. But now…now things had changed so drastically that Dean felt as if he were drowning and he didn't know what to do and nothing made sense anymore.

And now he was taking that last step and engulfing his brother in a rough and sudden hug and he had no idea how he'd gotten here…

"Sammy…" That was all he said—just "Sammy"—but it was enough to tip the world upright again, and Dean didn't feel so lost now.

Sam hugged him back, and Dean felt the moment when all the tension drained out and exhaustion set in instead. Soon, he was holding his brother on his feet as well as hugging him.

Dean realized then that he was shaking. The tremors matched his brother's so exactly that it was hard to tell when one man's left off and the other's began, and Dean would not have been surprised if their hearts were beating and breaking simultaneously at this moment.

But mostly, Dean was just thinking that he'd forgotten how _weird_ this felt.

It was important, though—something that needed to be done. A hug wouldn't fix everything—hell, it would hardly help _anything_, let alone repair such deep damage as his brother was apparently suffering right now.

But it was a start.

The thing Dean hated most about hugs, though, was that he had no clue when they were supposed to _end_. Or even _how_ to end them, actually. So if it was up to him, they probably would have stood in that cemetery until both of them dropped dead themselves, simply because he didn't know how to stop a hug. Ward them off…yes, that was an easy thing. But once he was caught _in_ one…well, he was as helpless as Dean Winchester ever got.

Luckily enough, though, Sam took charge after a while, and pushed him away, carefully.

Dean looked away, embarrassed, but in a moment his eyes were fastened on Sam again, and he felt a sudden, overwhelming need to say something, to break the infernal silence.

"That took about ten years off my life, so don't make me do it again."

_Stupid! Stupid, stupid, _stupid

But it wrenched the first smile of the day out of Sam, and immediately the thought disappeared and Dean felt like he could fly.

"You good, Sammy?"

The feeling returned.

_Stupid! What is _with_ you right now!_

Sam smiled again, as if trying to reassure Dean's very thoughts. "No. But…I'll get there."

_Maybe_.

The word hung in the air, unspoken but louder than a bomb.

Dean decided not to touch in it. Instead, he slung an arm around Sam and pulled the younger man tight against his side, guiding them both slowly, but firmly, back down the long path to the car.

"So how did you do it, anyway?" Dean asked as they walked. He kept his voice light and casual in a bizarre attempt to preserve some kind of normalcy.

Sam didn't ask what he was talking about, but he didn't reply either, and as a few seconds passed, Dean realized how the question must have sounded.

"Sorry," he murmured, even more embarrassed than before. "Forget it."

"No, it's okay," Sam replied. "I just…don't know how to answer that, because I don't have a clue how I did what I did. There was just all this _power_, and I had no idea where it came from or what it would do to me, but suddenly I knew exactly how to use it. So I did. Instinct…all instinct."

"Do you still have it?" Dean asked, keeping his voice bland and hiding the sudden awe and slight fear he felt—not exactly of Sam himself, but of what lay within him.

He felt Sam's shoulders rise under his arm as he shrugged. "Yeah, it's there. I can feel it inside, but—it's like there's a wall or something between it and me. So…no, I can't use it anymore."

"So…you're normal again? You won't…hurt anyone by accident or anything?"

Sam chuckled, and Dean savored the sound. "Yeah, Dean, I'm normal. Or…as normal as I ever was."

"Oh. Good. Good."

"Why?"

Dean was the one who shrugged now as he casually replied, "Well, we can't send you back to Stanford if you could kill someone by accident, can we?"

Sam didn't stop walking, but his steps faltered in his surprise. _"What_?"

"Well, that was what you wanted, right? To go back to Stanford once this was over?"

"Well…yeah, but…"

"So, it's over, and you should do what you want now." _God knows you deserve it._

"Well…what about you?" Sam asked, sounding shell-shocked.

Dean smiled, distantly. "Me? I'll keep doing what I've always done, Sammy."

"But…don't you want something more than that, though?"

"No," Dean replied, and he was surprised to find that it was the truth. "Because now…now the vengeance part is over, and I can do it just…to help. To do something…right, you know?"

"You're very open today," Sam observed. "Very…chick-like."

It took Dean a moment to absorb the fact that Sam had just opened the floor for banter. "Shut up…Samantha."

"Make me, Deanna."

Dean cuffed him lightly on the side of the head, and they walked in companionable silence for a while.

"So will you come visit me?"

"Every chance I get," Dean replied without skipping a beat.

"And you'll actually come _inside_?"

"Yep."

"And stay more than a few minutes?"

"If you have beer, sure."

"And maybe stay overnight once in a while?"

"That's a toughie. You might have to throw in M&Ms."

"So…we're doing this now."

"Rhetorical question, right?"

"Statement."

"Right. Drive you to California, then?"

Sam paused, and then all the banter was gone. "…Not yet."

"What? Why not?"

"I just wanna…drive with you for a while."

"Pretty long drive to California, Sam."

"I know, but…please, Dean?"

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_So, with one last look back at their father's grave, Sam and Dean Winchester—who would be the last of their line, but that was many years yet in the coming—climbed into the Impala, and left Salvation, never to return to that sad place._

_They had no agenda, no route, and no idea of where they were going._

_They just…drove._

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_We didn't start the fire._

_It was always burning since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire._

_But when we are gone,_

_It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on..._

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AN: So there it is. The thing that has been taking over my mind for the past four days. I hope you enjoyed it!


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